The Moth: StorySLAM!

As a long-time fan of The Moth podcast, I was beyond geeked to find out that The Moth hosts live Story Slams in Chicago on the last Tuesday of each month, at Martyr's, which is just down the street from me! Live story telling doesn't strike me as being hugely popular in this day and age, so I assumed my friends and I would be in the company of a few socially awkward guys with bad skin playing chess or D & D at a corner table. Boy was I wrong! As verified by the people waiting in the line that stretched out the door, the hipster crowd has latched onto anything and everything NPR, which makes these Story Slams a very cool and incredibly trendy way to spend a Tuesday night.

Each month, The Moth people choose a theme, which has to somehow figure into every story told. Anyone can sign up to tell a story, and of those volunteers, ten people are chosen at random. Every story is recorded and audience members can volunteer to judge, rating the stories on a scale from 1-10. The winner goes on to participate in regional (and possibly even national!) competitions. So as not to extend the event into the wee hours of the morning, a time limit is set for each story teller, replete with 60- and 30-second warning tones, giving the performer ample time to wrap up their yarn.

The topic that evening was SCARS, and the stories ran the gamut: physical, emotional, metaphorical. Aside from one last-minute sign-up, every story teller was well rehearsed, well prepared, and remarkably polished. Some tales were sad, some were hysterical, and one was even kind of raunchy, but they all tied in to the given topic. As I listened, laughed, gasped, and applauded wildly, I realized how much story telling was like writing. The strongest stories had a powerful introduction and a hook that drew listeners in right away. They were well structured, concise, dynamic, and had a concrete ending. The best story tellers were able to bring the tale full circle, and used facial expressions and vocal inflections (two perks not found in printed stories) to their undeniable benefit.

At my friends' urging, I toyed with the idea of signing up to tell a story. Having not known the theme beforehand, though, I decided against it. As the night went along, I became more and more convinced that I can tell my stories better in writing than I could in front of a microphone. Most of humanity can be divided into one of two camps: the Thinkers or the Doers. I identify more with the former. As a musician, this division is referred to as the Classically Trained and the Improvisers. I'm a Classical gal through and through. Put a piece of music on my stand, and with a little practice, I can play just about anything. Ask me to make something up on the spot, and I crumble. Other people I know are brilliant improvisers, but struggle to breathe life into a page full of notes. For me, story telling is a lot like music making; I need the ink on the page, to see the structure before me, and to practice the more difficult passages.

In short, you probably won't hear me on The Moth or at a jazz band concert, or any other improvised event. Although I have plenty of stories to tell, they won't be in that format. But if you're interested in my take on the scars theme, read on-- I'll be posting my (written) version very soon!

Photo Credit: Danielle Deschaine

Say WHAT?

I've never been one to have an instant comeback for a snarky or incendiary comment... I usually think of the perfect retort just as the other person is walking away. Since I began waiting tables, though, I've found it's even harder to further a conversation with a patron who says something so outlandish, off-the-wall, or just plain nasty that I don't know what to say... I just know that they're expecting a response. If I say nothing, it's usually interpreted as rudeness on my part, even though I'm often left feeling more bewildered than anything else.

After years of experience, I've gotten much better at coming up with generic, unoffensive answers on the spot. But every once in a while, a customer will say something so far out, that I'm left nearly speechless. I can usually worm my way out of the most impossible of conversations either by parroting back a portion of what they just said, or by laughing nervously and cheerfully telling them I'll be right back with their drinks/silverware/whatever as I'm backing away.

Aside from the occasional cantankerous old man who winds up in my section, one table in particular fills me with dread every time they walk in the door. An innocuous-looking couple in their mid-forties, they seem perfectly benign... until the husband places his drink order:

"Is your water filtered, or do you just get it from that spigot over there?" he once asked, nodding to the hose attachment a few feet away from their table on the patio.

"It is filtered, but I'd be happy to get you some tap water if you would prefer!" I told him cheerfully.

And on another occasion, he said, "I'd like a chilled glass with my beer. Do you think you can manage to bring me a clean one?"

"That's... that's always the goal!" I chirped, hoping my smile didn't look too forced.

His wife, as mousy as he is arrogant, has perfected the nervous laugh/apologetic smile combination, and giggles shrilly every time I have to bring them something. They don't frequent the establishment often enough to be considered regulars, but I've waited on them enough to know that they like their (filtered) water without ice, and their salad dressings on the side. When he's not in the mood for a salad, however, the conversation quickly devolves:

"What brand of Veggie Burgers do you serve?" he once queried. When I told him, he gave a disgusted sigh and said, "never mind. I'll just eat meat."

"Excellent choice, sir!" I beamed.

Then, during a rare morning shift, I was met with: "If I get toast, will it be toasted evenly on each side?"

Almost relieved, I quickly tailored a generic answer from the standard collection of server catch phrases: "Our chefs are quite adept, but if your 9-grain isn't toasted to your liking, I'd be happy to get you something else!"

Judging from his demeanor during these confrontations-- I mean, conversations-- it's pretty clear that he thinks he's being funny; it's a pity I don't subscribe to his brand of humor. His wife is quick to laugh at all the right times, though-- her tittering has become a near-involuntary response.

Once, the salad she ordered came out wrong-- it had onions even though she had asked for none. When I went to check on them, I saw the error and-- following standard server protocol-- I apologized and offered to get it fixed. She politely refused, opting to pick them off herself. Which was fine, until her husband chimed in with some disparaging remark about how she was the one who was always such a difficult customer.

"Women," he scoffed, shaking his head then looking to me for validation as his wife's laugh track started up again.

I balked momentarily, then smiled apologetically at the wife as I repeated, "Women!" I mirrored his head shake, and with a helpless shrug I joined in with his wife's shrill laughter. Content with my response, he turned his attention back to his non-veggie burger. And before he could say anything else, I gave his wife one more sympathetic look and scurried away.

The Cubby Blues

It was with a mixture of sadness and morbid curiosity that I tuned in to Ron Santo's televised funeral service this morning. The icky, voyeuristic feeling I had quickly dissipated, though, when I saw that the ceremony inside Holy Name Cathedral was not a solemn act of mourning, but rather a joyous celebration of life.

Santo was the Cubs' third baseman during the 60s and early 70s, then returned to Wrigley as a color commentator for WGN radio back in the early 90s, a position he held until his passing last week. Ronny wasn't just revered for being a great player or a good teammate or a member of one of the most beloved teams in Cubs' history, and he wasn't just adored for his passionate and entertaining broadcasts with Pat Hughes. Ron Santo was an incredible person. Although his athletic abilities, broadcasting outbursts, and remarkable fundraising efforts for juvenile diabetes research were what made him nationally renowned, it was his eternal optimism and ebullient spirit that endeared him to millions.

Ron faced more adversity in his life than most, and he had the added burden of tackling these challenges in the public eye. His admission that he had type-1 diabetes (a then-debilitating disease that eventually cost him both his legs) back in the early 70s stunned the baseball world, and the disappointment that stemmed from his many failed attempts at getting into the Baseball Hall of Fame were made all too public in the 2003 documentary, This Old Cub. But despite these setbacks, Ronny always had a minute to sign an autograph for a fan, give advice or words of encouragement to kids with diabetes, and to keep in touch with the people who were important to him.

If I've gathered anything from the stories, memories, and tributes that have been pouring in to WGN and the other local news stations since word broke about his passing, it's that he made a lasting impact on everyone with whom he came into contact. It's amazing to me how much of an effect a kind word or gesture can have on someone yet how, more often than not, that impact isn't fully realized or acknowledged until after that person has passed. From the stories shared by friends, family and colleagues, to memories from people who only met him once, to fans (like me) who never met him but feel like they knew him anyway, it sounds like Ronny was more of an exception than most, but I'll bet he never knew just how many lives he touched during his 70 years on Earth.

Which got me to wondering: why do so many of us wait until someone has died to express just how much they meant to us in life? Wouldn't it be better and more meaningful to share these sentiments with a loved one or mentor while they are still living? For whatever reason, this is easier said than done, but I think that if everyone made the effort to thank just one person who helped to shape the direction of their life or aided them in a time of need, the world would be a better place.

It was this thought that prompted me to email a professor I had for a month during my freshman year of college (who probably has no memory of me whatsoever) to congratulate her on the release of her new documentary and to compliment the superb essay she had published in our latest alumni magazine. I thanked her for sharing her story and told her that it was her class that prompted me to continue learning about her research (and related areas of study). I'm not expecting a reply, but at least she knows that she got through to at least one of us back in 1997.

And as for Ronny, we Cubs fans continue to hold out hope that the MLB will honor his legacy with a posthumous induction into Cooperstown, but today, I rest assured knowing that he has entered the Great Hall of Fame in the sky, and that he's in very good company. Rest in peace, Ron Santo, for your work here is done.

Menus

Menus are great. They're glossy and visually appealing, and they pack a wealth of concise information into neatly organized columns. Menus tell whether a restaurant serves Coke or Pepsi products, give prices and ingredients for most entrees, and they also list side options as well as any related costs of substitutions or extras. The hours of operation, contact information, and restaurant policies (such as adding an automatic gratuity to large parties or charging to split an entree) are almost always listed somewhere on the menu. And although it may not be a fascinating read, it certainly is worth the while.

It's a wonder then, that more people don't take the time they're given to read the menu. I get it, though. Sometimes the restaurant can be dark. The print is too small for some, while others can't focus when they're hungry. And most people are distracted by something: their kids, their phones, or the game on TV. That's where I come in. I am paid to know the menu, inside and out. I have memorized ingredient lists and been thoroughly tested on my menu knowledge, and I can rattle off side options like a pro. I know the soups of the day, and which items are (or can be prepared) vegetarian or dairy-free. I can usually predict how long it will take for the kitchen to cook a well-done steak or a salmon fillet on a busy Friday night. And if there's a question that I don't know the answer to (like whether the breading on the chicken has an ingredient that could trigger some obscure allergy), I am happy to find out.

For the most part, I don't mind reciting burrito or salad ingredients to a table. I use the time to establish a rapport with my customers; it's like making small talk about the weather, only with food. When I am knowledgeable about the menu and can answer people's questions quickly and definitively, it reflects positively on my work ethic and overall intelligence. The only time I am not willing to list every ingredient in the kitchen is for a take-out order; people who don't know what they want then they call inevitably end up getting put on hold, because there are other people calling who do know what they'd like to eat.

I ask only two things of dine-in patrons: First, if someone at your table has a question (like what types of cheese are offered) that you would also like to know the answer to, please pay attention the first time. My willingness to rattle off sandwich toppings decreases exponentially every time I have to repeat them to the same table. And second, please don't get snippy with me when I ask follow-up questions about your order (such as how well to cook a steak). Some menu items have more options than others, and I am just trying to get your order right the first time. There's no need to be condescending, and besides-- if you're going to act like you're smarter than I am, you should at least be able to read.

Please Wait to be (Con)ceited

It's high time I get the ball rolling on one of my "bucket list" projects; I'm not getting any younger, you know! Since most of my ultimate goals involve spending a great deal of money or amassing a wealth of knowledge (to travel to far-away places or to save the planet), I've decided to start small. I've always wanted to write a book, and since I don't have the vivid imagination of a fiction writer or a novelist's patience for outlining plots and developing characters, I need to write about what I know. And right now, what I know (and have known-- off and on-- since high school) is what it's like to work in the service industry.

I know how it feels to be judged for wearing an apron, stocking shelves, and preparing food. I know what it's like to be the source of people's (usually misdirected) anger, and I've been trained to accept criticism, insults, and ridicule with a smile. I know the torment of being overqualified for the part-time positions I have held. And I know the agony of not being able to tell those who assume I'm unintelligent, that I've chosen this less-than-desirable employment because its part-time hours and ever-changing schedules are what has given me the freedom and flexibility to put myself through school and to pursue my true passions.

I believe I can provide readers with a (more or less) objective view of life as a service-industry worker. I hope to share my experiences and present my insights in a collection of essays/short stories/vignettes, and my ultimate goal would be to publish these works in book form (see [copyrighted!] working title, above). And until Congress mandates that every American citizen hold at least one job serving the public, I'd like the revelations in my book to be the next-best thing! If my stories can get even one person to think twice about the way they speak to a cashier or a waiter-- to wait to be conceited-- I will consider this endeavor to be "mission accomplished."

So in an attempt to make at least one of my dreams become a reality, many of my blog posts from here on forward will be restaurant (or retail) related. All I ask of you, my dear readers, is to tell me what works and what doesn't. Tell me what you'd like to know as well as the topics I should avoid. Don't be afraid of hurting my feelings; I've worked retail. I've waited tables. I've been trained to take even the harshest criticisms with a smile. With that said, let the food fight begin!

Random Acts of Kindness

I was standing in a dank subway stop just north of downtown and feeling a little downtrodden. I was wet and out of breath, having gotten caught in a sudden downpour. My hair was frizzing and my wool coat (a clearance-rack, TJ Maxx special) had begun to smell not unlike a wet dog. A guy with a boom box was sneaking sideways looks at me, and it seemed like the train would never come.

Suddenly, out of the crowd of bedraggled commuters, burst this impeccably dressed gay guy with a piping hot latte in one hand and his smart phone in the other. Unlike most people on public transit, he looked at me (not through me) and slowed his stride long enough to gush, "Ohmigod I love your coat! And your scarf matches it perfectly! You look fabulous!" And just as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. He disappeared into (what was, by that time) a very crowded platform of commuters.

All it took was one unexpected compliment from a complete stranger to turn my day around. The train came-- I managed to snag a seat while boom box guy stayed on the platform-- and I no longer felt so frizzy or smelly. I'd always heard about the impact that random acts of kindness can have, and I've even tried to do some on occasion. But in the everyday drudgery of life, it's easy to forget how much a kind word or gesture can affect others. So, flattered and a little bewildered, I vowed to pay it forward before the warm, fuzzy feeling went away.

On my way home, I saw a neighbor toiling outside of the corner restaurant, replacing the fall flowers in the planters with evergreens, in anticipation of winter. "Looking good!" I chirped, smiling as I walked past. When she looked up and pushed her frizzy hair out of her eyes, her brows un-furrowed and a genuine smile spread across her face. I didn't stop to chat, but I did smile back. Then I pulled up the collar of my (fabulous) coat as I turned into the wind to block the rain, and I headed home.

With a Little Help...

While changing the sheets is a chore for most, in my home it's become a major undertaking. Not only is my queen-sized bed wedged in the corner of my tiny bedroom, I have two little helpers who love nothing more than fresh linens. In what can only be described as a near-Pavlovian response to the unremarkable sound of unfolding fabric, my two enormous tom cats come running into the bedroom and leap on top of a partially unfolded fitted sheet.

So I'll pick one up and dump him on the floor, but by the time I go to pick up the other, the first cat is right back up on the bed. This continues (with alternating cats) until one wanders off of the sheet and onto the mattress pad. I quickly pull the corner of the sheet with the other cat still on top of it, but the sudden movement causes him to pounce on the part that I am trying to stretch around a corner of the mattress, pawing furiously at the folds of fabric.

Once I have two corners secured, I steer my furry helpers toward the already-smoothed out part of the sheet. This allows me to finish attaching the bottom sheet, and puts them in perfect position for what comes next: the top-sheet application. By far their favorite part of the bed-making process, they crouch expectantly as I shake out the flat sheet. As soon as I snap it in the air and let it fall neatly over the mattress, they bound to the center of the bed and wait for the clean-smelling cloth to settle over them. It usually takes me a few tries to align the top sheet with the mattress, and the kitties think this is great fun.

Once the sheet is as even as it can be (with two moving blobs underneath, that is), I'll tuck the excess under the mattress at the foot of the bed, folding the sides into loose hospital corners. The unexplained movement of the mattress tends to spook Iggy, the larger of the two cats, and he'll shoot out from under the sheet and watch the corner-tucking from the doorway a safe distance away. It almost never fails, though, that he is distracted by a moving white blob in the middle of the bed. With a waggle of his haunches, he springs back onto the bed and pounces on the blob (a.k.a. Jack) and a tussle ensues, until the sheet is twisted enough to reveal one cat to the other. If I haven't completely tucked the sheet in before the blob attack, I have to repeat part two of my bed-making process, much to the delight of my fuzzies.

At this point, I usually walk away and do something else for a bit; the sheets aren't nearly as enticing when they're not moving. So once the cats lose interest, I'll sneak back in to straighten out the top sheet and put on the comforter. Since the pillows don't intrigue them, I usually have to add those finishing touches myself.

Without the ritual, without the fanfare, and without the help I get when changing the sheets, I could most likely accomplish this task in two minutes instead of twenty. And although it would be much easier without help, it wouldn't be nearly as much fun.

TEA PARTY!

No, I'm not referring to the patriotic East Coast revolutionaries of the 18th century, or the right-wing nut jobs claiming to be their 21st-century counterparts. I'm talking about tea. Loose-leaf tea: black, green, rooibos, oolong, you name it.

I've always been a fan of tea, but having grown up on the iced, unsweetened, Lipton variety, the demonstration and info session I attended during a food tour this summer literally blew my mind. The tour, which started in Chicago's Gold Coast and wound its way through Old Town up to Lincoln Park, took us into a small tea shop just north of the Viagra Triangle.

We each received a 20-ounce cup of an iced cranberry and mango green tea to sip while we listened to the tea guy's spiel. The tea was tasty and the guy was quite knowledgeable... long story short, I fell for his sales pitch... hook, line, and sinker.

First he showed us the contents of a typical tea bag, which is often just tea dust, the disintegrated remnants of crumbled-up tea leaves. Boo! Then he showed us a loose-leaf tea bag, and then loose-leaf tea that had been brewed in a metal tea ball. Which was better than tea dust, but (as I soon learned) still left much to be desired. Then he whipped out a contraption that looked like infomercial fare but sounded divine.

Loose-leaf tea is hard core, and only die-hards are willing to make the effort, right? Not anymore! This little doo-dad demystified loose-leaf tea for me and my fellow foodies-for-a-day. The tea leaves are measured into the plastic pitcher, and the hot water is poured in on top of that. Once brewed to the desired strength, the pitcher is set on top of a tea cup or mug, and the ball bearings on the bottom of the whatsit allow the steeped water to filter down through a sieve and into the cup, while all of the leaves remain inside of the thingie. Cool!

A side-by-side comparison of the tea leaves from the mesh ball and the tea leaves in the nifty pitcher was astounding; the leaves in the pitcher were free to rehydrate to their former size, which was nearly three times the size of the leaves in the ball and the bag. And according to tea guy, these vessels acted as tea "prisons" and wouldn't allow the tea to reach its full brewing potential. This antiquated and barbaric method of brewing loose-leaf teas also prohibited it from achieving its full flavor potential, too.

It wasn't long before I joined in the chants of "free the tea!" and, once the tour was over and we were free to shop, we returned to the Gold Coast and each bought the requisite amount of tea that allowed us to use our 75% off coupon on a thing-a-ma-jig of our very own. I am confident that this was money well spent; I have brewed more loose-leaf tea this summer since, well, EVER. I guess I am officially a card-carrying member of the loose-leaf tea party!

Lost in Translation

I was sorting through a box of miscellaneous photos this afternoon, and stumbled upon a slip of paper upon which I had written two words: Pharmacy Buddha. Pharmacy Buddha? Eventually I remembered the context in which I originally thought I had heard the phrase; from our personal Chinese tour guide as we were walking through a museum of sorts within either the Lama Temple or The Temple of Heaven in Beijing last fall.

Overly knowledgeable but not-quite fluent, our guide's rapid-fire delivery of historic tidbits, Mandarin pronouns, and trivia information had sent my brain into fact overload on more than one occasion. Adding to my confusion was the utter foreignness of his accent to my Western ear; his pronunciation of some English words sounded quite like other words in our language, albeit with altogether different meanings. I scurried through the Forbidden City on the first day of our trip with a mental note to check his story about the Dragon Lady and her husband's mistress who she fed to a whale, as it sounded eerily familiar to the fate of Jonah (of Biblical fame), until he showed us what he was talking about. Dragon Lady stuffed her husband's mistress down a well, which was still unfortunate, but made a lot more sense.

Even though I don't remember doing so, I must have jotted down "Pharmacy Buddha" as we were peering through the glass at the menagerie of fat, happy, squinty-eyed religious icons on display. He kept referencing the "Pharmacy Buddha", so there must have been some significance to that particular incarnation of the famous deity, but try as I might, I couldn't find any connection between what I was hearing and what I was seeing. None of the figurines was holding a pill bottle or a mortar and pestle or anything, so then I began to wonder whether the ancient Chinese made Buddhas the same way we make Barbies. Barbie-- who, according to Mattel, has had 125 careers and counting-- is a Jane of all trades. So if there is a Pharmacy Buddha, is there not also a Park Ranger Buddha, a Helicopter Pilot Buddha, a Veterinarian Buddha?

A Google search of the phrase turned up quite a few interesting results, but none that even came close to corroborating our guide's story. So what was the significance of the Pharmacy Buddha? Unless one of my religiously diverse friends (with an ear for loosely related cognates) cares to venture a guess, I suppose I'll never know.

To Space or Not to Space?

It's amazing what a difference a space makes! This Redbox kiosk stopped me in my tracks early this morning. I stopped by Walgreen's on my way to work, and in my defense, I wasn't fully awake, but it took me the better part of a minute to figure out what the instructions were telling me. Had this vending machine of DVD rentals suddenly become multi-functional? Is there even a demand to rent the other item they were suddenly offering? I couldn't imagine that there was... I know first-hand that renting has its perks, but some items are just more practical to own. And, call me crazy, but sunscreen is one of those things I prefer to outright own.

If your neurons haven't already made the same faulty connection that mine did, I've zoomed in on the instructions that had me so confused. It wasn't until after my logical side rejected my too-literal initial thought that I figured out they had labeled the sun screen, the mini-shade that protected the computer screen below from the damaging rays of the sun. Phew. That's apparently too much for this grammarian to process on a Tuesday morning!

Where Have all the Blue Crayons Gone?

As I near the end of my fifth summer waiting tables at a family-friendly (perhaps overly kid-friendly) neighborhood restaurant, I find myself pondering the crayon situation. Like many restaurants, we provide paper place mats and a four-pack of Crayolas to the under-twelve crowd, a feeble attempt to keep the kids entertained and in their seats in an age where fewer and fewer parents feel responsible for doing this themselves. In recent years, we've made an effort to reuse the crayons we hand out, tossing the unbroken colored wax sticks into little pails, which we loan out and then recollect at the end of each table's meal.

Despite these Crayola conservation efforts, we still lose a fair amount of crayons to the everyday wear and tear of restaurant life. Crayons that have been broken, chewed on, ground into the carpet, or melted under a hot plate or an extended stay on the patio are removed from the rotation and tossed out.

What baffles me, though, is how we always seem to have a shortage of blue crayons. No matter how many times we stock the little pails with fresh crayons, filling each with an equal number of colors, the blue crayons are always the first to disappear. Are blue crayons more susceptible to breaking? Are they used more often than the other colors? Is there a demand for blue crayons on the juvenile black market?

Whatever the reason, all I know is that once the blue crayons are gone, the red and the green aren't far behind. Which leaves us with-- you guessed it-- pails full of yellow crayons. And no kid wants a bucket full of yellow crayons. This is why I've taken it upon myself to oversee the regular stocking of the crayon pails, because there's nothing worse than having a section full of children and a wait list half a page deep and being taken to task by a four-year old because they don't want to color the sky yellow. Not that I blame them, but still.

So in the interest of crayon equality, I encourage children everywhere to use all of the colors equally. Their world will be brighter because of it, and not so blue.

Potato Mashing FAIL

I don't know what it is about mashing potatoes that is so difficult for me, but I've managed to fail at yet another attempt to recreate this creamy, buttery, All-American comfort food. My troubles with mashed potatoes began back in grad school. Potatoes were cheap, so I ate them frequently. Feeling adventurous, I attempted a basic variation of this dietary staple, using the only tool I had available at the time; an old-fashioned hand mixer. I stuck it in the pot of freshly boiled potatoes, watery milk, and oily margarine, and turned the hand crank. With a "ca-CHUNK", I managed to shoot potato bits all over my gloomy afterthought of a kitchen, leaving little but a milky, buttery gruel in my garage-sale sauce pan.

Fast forward ten years. I have a bright, spacious kitchen, decent culinary skills, full-sized appliances, brand-name pots and pans, and more kitchen gadgets than I know what to do with. Among those gadgets is a bonafide potato masher. It is made by a reputable American company, and this specialized utensil's only purpose is to-- as the name implies-- mash potatoes. So I boiled up a pot of locally grown, farm share potatoes, added fresh cream and pure, unsalted butter, and began to mash.

As I mashed, I noticed with horror that the potatoes weren't blending at all, but rather, aerating--squeezing up through the holes of the specialized gadget in an oddly disturbing shape. Was I making potato worms? No... it was more like... aerated potato turds.

A true Midwestern girl, I like my potatoes any way you slice 'em. Except for, apparently, in turd form. So I quickly abandoned the masher and-- before I had a chance to dwell too much on the sight and gross myself out-- took a fork to the mess. I'll be sticking to baked potatoes from now on, so if any of you are looking for a handy-dandy potato aerator, stay tuned, as it will be available soon in a central-Illinois garage sale near you!

Flakes on a Train

Having lived in Chicago for the better part of a decade, my view of the city's bright lights and gleaming skyscrapers has dimmed and dulled. Instead of shopping and sightseeing, I spend the better part of most days working and sitting in traffic or on transit. So I couldn't help but smile when I overheard snippets of phone conversations on the Amtrak this morning. I was heading to St. Louis, surrounded by a group of teenage girls from nowheresville, Missouri. They thoroughly enjoyed their trip and were eager to share the highlights with their friends and relatives back home. To the people on the other end of their wireless connection, they gushed:

"The restaurant we went to was so fancy, they actually took reservations!"
"I'm gonna save up my money so that, when I come back, I can rent a Segway!"
"They put an awful lot of stuff on their hot dogs!"
"Cirque Shanghai was more like a show than a circus, cuz it didn't have any animals."
"That car I saw from the Sky Deck was a Transformers car! They're filming the actual movie right in the middle of downtown, and I saw the set!"
"The Macy's stores have multiple floors here! Like, more than two!"
"Did you know that you can see Michigan and Indiana from Navy Pier?"

Ah, how I long to be wide-eyed and wondrous again, to be able to see this city through the eyes of a teenage tourist.

Are YOU Smarter than a 5th Grader?

Homophone Quiz

Homophone: One of two or more words (such as bear and bare), that are pronounced the same but differ in meaning, origin, and spelling.

Circle the correct word choice in each of the following sentences:

Warm ups

1. The Cubs one/won their game today!

2. I wish the Sox had been victorious, to/too/two.

3. Will you come here/hear for a minute? I can't here/hear you!

4. No fair/fare! I want to come!

5. Witch/Which way did he go?

Commonly Mistaken Homophones

6. You're/your going to regret wasting time on you're/your day off!

7. There/they're/their meeting on the platform over there/they're/their.

8. Who's/Whose list is this? I want to know who's/whose coming to the party!

9. I stopped by/buy the store to by/buy groceries.

10. Bear/bare in mind that this speaker will probably bear/bare his soul.

These don't even sound the same!

11. I should tighten that lose/loose rope, but I don't want to lose/loose my place in line.

12. I went/when to the store to buy a loaf of bread.

13. Were/Where is the remote?

14. Who/How told you that?

Extra Credit

15. The capital/capitol building is located in Springfield, our state's capital/capitol.

Answers: 1. won 2. too 3. here...hear 4. fair 5. which 6. you're...your 7. they're...there 8. whose...who's 9. by...buy 10. bear...bare 11. loose...lose 12. went 13. where 14. who 15. capitol...capital

Grading: 14-15= A

13= B

12= C

11= D

10 or below= F!

Phonics 101

I know that, for most of us, grade school was a long time ago. It's hard sometimes to remember basic facts and concepts learned back in the 3rd and 4th grade, like what is the capital of Vermont or how to find the quotient (or the remainder) in long division. The brain rot we experience in these subject areas is largely due to lack of use; when people don't have to apply this knowledge, they are more likely to forget. And with devices like calculators and sites like Google Earth, the answers to the above questions are literally at our fingertips.

What I don't understand, though, is how people can forget the basic concepts of a subject that we use all day, every day? I'm talking about language, people: grammar, phonics, and spelling. It's astounding to me just how often the English language is abused, misused, and bastardized. Just this week, I heard a news story about how the editors of Webster's Dictionary had to add a definition for the word nonplussed, because it is misused with such alarming frequency. The term is basically a fancy word for confused, but most people think it's synonymous with the word unimpressed. So many, in fact, that the dictionary people caved to public pressure.

Also this week, former Alaska governor and current pain in the ass, Sarah Palin, attempted to defend herself against the ridicule she received for using words like "refudiate" and "misunderestimate" in a speech she gave... She did this by comparing herself to Shakespeare... because he liked to coin new words too, you know.

That politicians make up fancy-sounding words in an attempt to sound smarter than they are is nothing new. The latter President Bush made up so many words (like "suiciders" and "strategery") and used them so convincingly, some people started to wonder if it was they who were uninformed, and former Vice President Quayle never did live down his highly publicized misspelling of the word tomato.

So as a service to the general public, I will be posting a worksheet on homophones, and possibly one on punctuation marks as well. Although I'm sure that you, my dear readers, will all pass with flying colors, feel free to pass the upcoming posts on to anyone who demonstrates a need for a refresher course. Like the annoying guy who comments on all your friends' Facebook posts: "I love movie's! There filming one outside my office bldg rite now!" Or a colleague's sister who texts: "The Cubs one today"... get my drift?

So sharpen your #2 pencils, kids-- one phonics quiz, coming right up!

Dear Cilantro

Please don’t die on me now. You have been so flavorful and delicious in my guacamole, soups, and taco dishes so far this summer, and now that the tomatoes and Serrano peppers are nearly ready to harvest, I can assure you that you have much to live for; the best is yet to come!

I know it’s been unusually warm this week, but if your cousin Parsley can take the heat, you should be able to, too. You’re an herb, for crying out loud, not a pansy! The way you’re wilting and shriveling up, like a fragile little flower, is downright pathetic.

So if you won’t perk up for me, the one who planted you from seed, watered and cultivated you to grow up big and strong, then mixed your rinsed and finely chopped leaves into my favorite Mexican dishes, then do it for Tomato and Pepper; just think of all the beautiful salsas you will make together come August.

The shame you likely feel from the close-cropped pruning job I did is only temporary, I promise. Please know I did it out of love and that, if you’re willing to make the effort, you’ll be sprouting new shoots in no time. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself in my neighbor’s compost pile. And don’t tell the others, but you’re the favorite of all my herbs, so I do hope you’ll hang on just a little bit longer. I’m “rooting” for you!

Love,
Allison

My Doppleganger

I once again shed my everyday image as freelance musician and struggling artist, and emerged from my secret phone booth (a.k.a. the employee bathroom) as Super Server, my not-so-cool alter ego. Like most of the overqualified, creative types posing as wait staff in restaurants all over this city, I can hang with the best of the professional servers in the industry; committing long and modified orders to memory, anticipating a table’s every need without being overly attentive, and keeping my inner monologue a secret to everyone but myself so I never tell a rude or condescending customer what I really think of them.

Every once in a while, though, life will throw me a curve ball that will test the strength of my mental filter, the one that keeps my thoughts from touching my tongue and escaping through my open mouth as a quick retort or hurled insult or any variety of guttural sounds that could potentially get me fired from my menial day job.

About halfway through my shift, I had an older couple from the neighborhood seat themselves at table three. I smiled and waved at them from behind the bar, as I had waited on them before and they have always been quite courteous. I got them drinks and appetizers without incident, and when I set their entrees before them, I cheerily asked if there was anything else they needed. Suddenly, the husband snapped his fingers in a “Eureka!” sort of way, and I looked at him quizzically.

“I’ve been trying all night to figure out who you remind me of,” he started, “and I’ve finally got it!”

I kept smiling, eyebrows raised, waiting to see who I would be compared to this time. A young Sigourney Weaver? Julia Louis Dreyfus from her Seinfeld days?

“You look like a Cocker Spaniel!” the old guy exclaimed triumphantly.

I could feel a flush creeping across my face as his wife hastily backpedaled in his defense, “He means that in a good way, dear! With their curly hair and their big ears, they’re just the cutest little things!”

My teeth were clenched (so I wouldn’t tell him that he looked like a Sharpei), but I kept my smile firmly in place.

“Yes!” he agreed, “I just mean that you’re a very pretty girl."

So I did the only thing that Super Server could do in this situation: I laughed and thanked him -- for telling me that I looked like a dog -- then I walked away.


photo by sweetron1982

The Great Immigration Debate

It's been a little more than a month now that Arizona Governor, Jan Brewer, introduced sb1070, the state law that would give local authorities the power to prosecute and deport offenders that are determined to be illegal immigrants, and the debate over its Constitutionality has only gotten more heated. Everyone in the country seems to have an opinion about Arizona's decision to even propose such a law, and proponents and opponents alike are hardening their stance on the issue, making the likelihood of the two sides coming together for a logical, practical discussion on the matter dwindle with each passing day.

In my humble opinion, however, I don't think either side has a viable solution to the problem that is illegal immigration. And as long as the focus remains on the rights afforded to each individual and not to the problem as a whole, we'll be no closer to a solution five years from now than we were five years ago. The main talking points have all been debated ad nauseum, so I won't bother to rehash tired issues. Instead, I'd like to look back at how immigration issues were resolved in the past. And they were resolved; how often do you hear people complaining about Irish immigrants these days? Or the Chinese?

Common sense and a little historical perspective indicate to me that the solution is twofold: Make it easier for immigrants to come into this country through legal channels and harder for them to come through illegal channels, and help to stabilize the economy and government of the countries from which they emigrate. In almost every case of "problem immigrants", once their home countries were no longer in financial or political turmoil, the mass exodus slowed. I'm not well versed in international affairs, so aside from educating the young (which will theoretically cause a paradigm shift in values over the course of a generation), I'm not sure how to help countries like Mexico help itself. With all the corruption within their government and law-enforcement agencies, and the raging violence spurred by the drug cartels, the situation seems hopeless.

On this side of the border, though, I think we would be better served to go after the businesses and organizations the openly cater to the undocumented residents in our communities. Everyone is looking to the government to change this law or that regulation, but our elected officials are squabbling over every word uttered by the enemy party at the moment, meaning, that they're not making any progress on anything. So what if states did take matters into their own hands? What if, instead of targeting individuals, police officers conducted stings at the car dealerships who sell cars to people who don't have driver's licenses? Or to the Photo I.D. storefronts that openly advertise that they'll make whatever kind of documentation you want, for a fee? Or the employers who don't check Social Security Numbers against the national database? Or who blatantly leave workers off their taxable payroll altogether? Or the landlords who rent three-bedroom apartments to a "family" of 15, despite zoning laws and housing ordinances? You get my drift.

It's not hard to spot the businesses in this city that cater to undocumented residents. A short drive down Western Avenue takes me past half a dozen car dealerships who boldly state: "No licensia? No problema!" Now, Spanish is not a secret language, and even people who don't speak any Espanol should have a pretty good idea of what that means. If a law-abiding citizen like myself were to try and buy a car without a licensia (or seguros-- that's insurance), I can pretty much guarantee you that it would be a big problema!

I'm not trying to take sides, here. In fact, I think both sides make some valid points. All I'm saying is, we already have laws in place on the issues I cited above. If we spent more time enforcing those laws, maybe we'd have less need for new and controversial ones. Enforcement of existing laws would make it infinitely more difficult for someone who is in the country illegally to get a job, rent an apartment, buy a car, and (most of all!) apply for government aid. And without a source of income, mode of transportation, or a place to live, life in the U.S. suddenly doesn't look so appealing.

But until we stop hiring undocumented workers to do the jobs no one else wants to do, start checking the paperwork of each and every person in the welfare line, and cracking down on under-the-table transactions at car dealerships and the like, we-- as a nation-- will continue to support the cause of the illegal immigrant, now matter how inadvertently we may do so. I'm not saying that we need mass deportations or blanket amnesty, I'm just saying that, in order to make any progress, we need to shift the focus away from individuals, and that this is as good a starting point as any. That is all.

Are you listening, Arizona?

The Wright Stuff!

Not to brag or anything, but I had just about the coolest birthday weekend EVER! My family came up and we crammed a week's worth of activities into a few short days. My favorite event, hands down, was the Wright Plus Tour in Oak Park. Once a year, the Frank Lloyd Wright Preservation Trust opens up a number of private residences for a day, and allows architecturally voyeuristic types (like myself) to see the insides of these historically significant residences.

Although some of the homes (like the two Thatcher houses, above) were not built by Wright, they were important for other reasons. All the other architects were either contemporaries or predecessors, and the homes showed either Wright's inspirations for his early works or his influence in later styles.

This Wright home, which was down the street from the second Thatcher house, was not available for viewing, but is significant because it shows how Wright gave his client windows on three sides of every room, which the client believed would help improve the air circulation and decrease the chances of his family catching tuberculosis. I found the TB house to be quite innovative and lovely.


The next Wright home we entered was small, but completely worth the wait. The E. Arthur Davenport house was undergoing a complete gut rehab in the process of being restored to its original glory. The original light fixtures and built-in furniture was stunning, and the highlight of the tour was the information provided by the previous owner, a little old lady who seemed a bit sad to see her and her late husband's improvements being dismantled in the name of preservation.











One of my favorite homes on the tour was in the newly refurbished River Forest Women's Club (William Drummond, 1913) building. This structure was an some architectural endangered species list as recently as 2005, but the people who purchased it not only turned it into a private home, they used LEED designs and energy efficient renovations every step of the way. The transformation is so impressive that the home appeared in yet another magazine last year, because of its eco-friendly renovations. Very cool!











After lunch, we made a brief pass through Wright's home and studio. Although it's cool to see, if pales in comparison to many of the homes he made for other people. His shifting octagonal studio is, by far, the most impressive design in this entire structure.

From there we trekked over to see the Rollin Furbeck House (Frank Lloyd Wright, 1897, pictured below, left) and the Charles F. Lorenzen House (E. E. Roberts, 1908 pictured below, right). Both were stunning and impeccable in both design and decoration.











Because of the lines at some of the homes, and because some of the locations were in River Forest (just west of Oak Park), we missed one of the Frank Lloyd Wright homes on the tour. Our last stop of the day, however, took us to the Frank W. Thomas House (Wright, 1901), which was one of Wright's earliest and most significant Prairie-style homes, and which apparently hadn't been opened to the public in more than 21 years!

Later that weekend, we ventured down to Hyde Park to see the Robie House, (below), which is celebrating its 100th anniversary. Although the architecture was stunning, because of the ongoing renovations at the site, the interior decorations left much to be desired. I would love to revisit this home once the renovations are complete.











Also included in the price of our ticket was admission to Frank Lloyd Wright's Unity Temple in Oak Park. We didn't have time to see the temple this weekend, but the tickets are good for a year, and having been inside the temple once before, I can assure you that it is well worth the return trip!

So if you have even the slightest interest in turn-of-the-century midwestern architecture, I would encourage you to check out the Wright Plus Tour! Tickets for the 2011 event go on sale this October. Be sure to get yours while the getting is good!

Distracted Driving

It was late Thursday morning, and like most Thursday mornings, I was heading west on I-90, just past the River Road Toll Plaza. I don’t normally do much in the way of people watching on this stretch of my commute, as traffic usually becomes less congested after everyone passes the tollbooth and merges into the appropriate lanes. When I’m stuck in bumper-to-bumper gridlock on the Kennedy, sure, I’ll look around me and see people doing all sorts of things behind the wheel, but once we’re moving, I return my focus to making sure these distracted drivers don’t crash into me. At times, this can be quite the feat.

However, since I was in a lane that was ending in a quarter mile, I put my turn signal on and glanced to the right. Whizzing by me, at about 70 miles an hour, was a guy in a fancy white Buick who was eating his lunch. Out of a Chinese take-out box… with chopsticks. I wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or impressed by this guy, hurtling down the expressway in what may as well have been a projectile missile.

He wasn’t anything like the run-of-the-mill morons I see, who send texts, read the paper, or attempt to apply makeup while they drive. He took the art of distracted driving to a whole new level. The activity that was taking his eyes off the road actually required some talent and a fair amount of manual dexterity! Because if he’s as cool as he seems, surely he’s too cool to drop leftover fried rice onto his tan leather seats.

Meanwhile, I remained uncool yet alert in my ugly maroon Sentra, making sure to steer way clear of the Ultimate Distracted Driver.

The Audition

In honor of the two-year anniversary of the most unprofessionally run audition of the twenty-first century (thus far), I thought I'd share yet another writing exercise in which I was to describe an event I had been looking forward to, but that didn't turn out as I had expected. Names and locations have been deliberately omitted to protect the innocent.

Of the eight applicants vying for the two open positions in my hometown orchestra, my chances looked good. I was a little upset that I was asked to choose which position I wanted to pursue, as I was planning to audition on both instruments. Assuming that everyone had faced the same dilemma, I chose English horn, as I had been asked to sub on the orchestra's masterworks concert the same weekend, a last-minute call for an extremely difficult piece. I was also thinking that most people would choose to audition on oboe instead of an auxiliary instrument. As it turns out, I was the only one who was asked to audition on one instrument or the other; everyone else (save the college student who didn't have an English horn) was auditioning on both instruments.

Since no one else had to choose between instruments, I tried to get my name back on the oboe audition list that morning, but was told that it was too late, which didn't seem fair. Then the committee decided to separate the auditions instead of having every applicant start on oboe (which is what usually happens), and those they wanted to hear again would return with the English horn in the final rounds. So I sulked in the harshly lit warm-up room I had been assigned and waited for the other seven applicants to finish their oboe auditions. An hour passed. Then another. I started asking questions two-and-a-half hours in, but at that point, they were just moving onto the final round. The screen that separates the candidates from the judging panel is removed during the final round, and musicians are allowed to interact with the committee.

After another 45 minutes of deliberation, the announcement was made that no one played well enough for the Maestra’s liking (I find that hard to believe; there were some great players there!), but that the position would be given by default to the woman who had been awarded the one-year position the season before. After all, she had performed better than all of the other candidates that morning.

Finally, numbers were drawn for the English horn audition. The way rooms were assigned was this: Candidate #1 was placed in warm-up room #1, Candidate #2 (that was me) went into warm-up room #2, and so forth. As I was running over the excerpts that I had been trying not to over practice in the hours before, I heard a knock at the door. The Maestra opened the door and stuck her head in the room.

“Who’s in here?” she asked. I balked, as the first cardinal rule of any legit audition is not to let the committee see any of the applicants before they play.

“Oh,” she said, deflated. “I just needed to use the bathroom. Never mind.” Having practically grown up in that auditorium, I know for a fact there was a bathroom about 20 feet behind where she had been sitting in the auditorium, but I said nothing.

Then I heard a knock at the practice room door next to mine. Through the thin walls, I heard her ask to use the bathroom and she entered the room. Instead of voiding her bladder, however, she proceeded to coach Candidate #1 (who was a finalist from the previous audition, not to mention a great English horn player) on her sound and her playing style. As I listened, thunderstruck, on the other side of the drywall divide, I heard the Maestra tell Candidate #1 that, “this is what I’m listening for. This is how I want this to be played. Do you think you can do that?” Then she left the room and assumed her spot behind the curtain.

Seething, but hoping to remain more professional than the Maestra, I waited until after my audition to approach the personnel manager. I played well, but my focus was shot, as a good portion of my brain was still trying to process what had just happened. I may as well have just left because – lo and behold – Candidate #1 won the gig. Imagine that.

But I still had a concert to play that night. Under the Maestra's woefully unprepared baton. And I couldn't no-show; the orchestra and the soloist would have been just as affected (possibly more so) by my absence as the Maestra. So I stayed and played. I'd like to think I played well enough to make her regret her decision (not that I wanted to play for her again... EVER... in fact, I told the personnel manager to forget my name and lose my number before I left the audition that afternoon). Although I took the high road that night, I also took great satisfaction in reporting her to the Union the following week.

Fortunately, the universe has a way of righting wrongs. I won't go into the specifics of what has happened since, except to tell the Maestra that karma is a bitch, what goes around comes around, etc. etc. etc.

Rocky on Rockwell?

I live close to an el stop – as in, if I fell out my living room window, I would be on the el tracks, close – and can see the station from my kitchen window. I like to people watch when I'm cooking or washing dishes, and more than once (okay, quite a bit), I’ve spied a well-dressed guy at the station, whose faded navy Jansport backpack doesn’t quite go with his creased slacks and colorful ties. He catches the 2:48 train toward the Loop, arriving shortly before it arrives. In fact, he has his departure timed so well, that he strides confidently onto the platform, walks directly past the recycling box, the pay phone, and the other commuters, and drops his old Jansport onto a bench about halfway down the platform.

He then drops and does exactly 15 pushups – the manly kind, with an extra-macho clap of his hands between each one – as the train approaches. He somehow always manages to complete all fifteen just as the train rolls to a stop. He leaps up, assumes a very Rocky-esque stance, throwing his clenched fists into the air victoriously as he grunts, “YEAH!” Then he slings that dirty blue backpack over his freshly pressed shirt and boards the fourth car of the Brown Line train.

The Pee Party

I thought about calling this the Tale of Two Toddlers, but this time, it's not the wee ones who have me steamed, it's their parents. I got to work this morning and was handed a wet booster seat. A little girl at one of my tables had wet her pants. It was gross, but she was crying and her mother was horrified, and hey-- it happens. I carried the soiled booster off to the side, hosed it down, doused it with bathroom cleaner, and left it to dry. What bugged me, though, was that the family decided to stay and finish their lunch, even though the little girl was wet and still crying. She sat in her own filth for another half an hour or so! This seemed cruel to me, but I'm not a parent, so what do I know?

The rest of the morning shift went off without a hitch. I took a break and ate a late lunch, and no sooner did I clock back in and walk out onto the patio do I see another little girl trying to get her parents' attention. She was out of her high chair doing the pee-pee dance, tugging on her mother's sleeve and saying "mommymommymommymommymommymommymommy". Mommy was ignoring her, and before I could cross the sidewalk to alert this negligent parent to her child's urgent need, the little girl squats and pees all over the patio. The parents were still oblivious.

Since it was no longer an emergency, I said nothing, because I didn't know how to nicely tell someone that, because they weren't tending to the needs of their child, the child had just gone number one all over the patio. I couldn't help but smirk, though, when the dad absently picked up the little girl (in order to shut her up) and put her on his knee. His pant leg got soaked, and he paid attention then! So he told his wife, and then they laughed! They, too, decided not to leave right away, but let their child stand in her wet, soiled clothes as they finished their drinks. These parents, unlike the ones from lunch, made no attempt to clean up after their child, and when they left, they giggled as they carefully skirted the puddle next to their table. I made a point of shooting them a nasty look as I hosed off the patio seconds after they had gotten up.

So to all the bad parents out there, let me say this: Public urination is not cute, and it's not funny; it's a misdemeanor. And, when done at a restaurant, it's also a health code violation. So if your child is potty training, if you're not willing to be extra vigilant about their not-so-subtle hints about needing to go when you're out in public, then put a diaper on them until you get home. If you want, you can let them pee on your kitchen or dining room floor instead. But it's not my fault that you procreated, so it shouldn't be my responsibility to clean up after your offspring. At least not in that capacity. That is all.

Floor 2.5

Did you know that Millennium Park is one of the largest rooftop gardens in the country? Below this stage, the Pritzker Pavillion, the building and its adjacent parking garages extend another 7 floors below the Earth. In addition to parking, you'll find offices, practice and rehearsal rooms, auditoriums, public restrooms, and even a pedestrian walkway to the red line/blue line subway under Millennium Park! But first, you'll have to figure out how to get into this architectural freak of nature. And be warned: the floor plan of this building is just as convoluted as its rooftop is spectacular.

Having been inside the belly of the Pritzker Pavillion for auditions numerous times before, I wisely left myself some extra time to find the Harris Theater. I stepped off the train more than a half hour before rehearsal was slated to start and checked the info sheet that the personnel manager had emailed me just days before. All it said was:

Friday Rehearsal 10:00 a.m.-1:00 p.m.

Harris Theater

201 E. Randolph Street

I went to the main entrance of the Harris Theater of Dance only to find it locked. The next door I found led to an underground parking garage, so I trotted around to the back of the building and tried the entrance I had used to get to my auditions. It was also locked. I walked the entire perimeter of the building, and could not find a way in. So I walked back around to the park side and found a janitor sweeping in front of the restrooms. He told me to enter through the parking garage, which seemed weird. So I retraced my steps, and along the way, I asked a maintenance guy, a random French hornist (who I hoped was going to the same rehearsal-- he wasn't), and a cop on a Segway how on earth I was supposed to get into the building.

Segway cop finally told me to take the parking garage elevators to floor 2.5 (I really hoped he wasn't joking, since, by this time, rehearsal was starting in 10 minutes) and to ask the first person I encountered in the concrete maze below how to get to the Theater from there. So I stepped off the elevator and followed the stark cinder block hallways around three sudden corners before I stumbled on a security desk.

Overcome with relief, I told the woman behind the desk what I was there for, and asked her to direct me to the rehearsal. She told me to follow the wide concrete hallway around two more corners and down a half flight of stairs, where I would find the Harris Theater.

I opened a heavy set of double doors and stepped on stage, but instead of hearing the familiar sounds of an orchestra warming up, I heard a power saw. Rehearsal was starting in two minutes, and it certainly wasn't in here. Power saw guy spotted me at the edge of the orchestra pit, looking bewildered, and asked me where I was trying to go. When I told him, he nodded knowingly, as if I wasn't the first person who had wandered into a dark theater looking for something that wasn't there.

So I followed his instructions and passed through the heavy velour stage curtains, stepping gingerly over a river of cables and wires, and opened the steel door he had described to find... a mess of rope pulleys for the curtains through which I had just passed. I was just about to retrace my steps to ask him again when I spied it; another steel door, barely visible behind some metal scaffolding. I carefully made my way over there, trying to avoid the sandbags that were holding the curtain ropes in place.

This door opened up into another nondescript hallway and, thankfully, not a closet. So as I crossed the threshold from backstage, the sounds of my own footsteps were quickly replaced by what was at that time (10:03 to be exact) the most glorious noise I'd ever heard; the cacophony of string players warming up their instruments with freshly rosined bows.

Running now, I bolted toward the sound and threw open yet another set of double doors at the end of the hallway and found the errant orchestra. I arrived frazzled and out of breath, but I beat the conductor to the room, so I hastily assembled my oboe and was prepared to give the tuning note with about 3 seconds to spare.

Once rehearsal was over, I packed up quickly and followed the regulars out a side door, which led to a green room and a set of elevators. Although it had taken me nearly 35 minutes to get into the building, it took me only a minute and a half to get out. If I'm ever called to sub with this group again, I'll be sure to request a map next time.

Bad Names for Street Gangs

Okay, so this started out as a writing exercise, too, but it makes me giggle, so I thought I'd share some of my favorites.

Bad Names for Street Gangs
*The Snitches
*The Honor Rollers
*The Peter Pansies (We don't wanna grow up!)
*The Baby Daddies
*The Missed Opportunities
*The Convicts in Training
*The Pontificating Punks
*The Vernacular Verse-ologists
*The Bad Apples
*The Sick Puppies
*The Mug Shots

There were plenty of others, but weeding out the offensive, the uncreative, and the downright awful was all part of the process. I'm not sure how useful or relevant this was to me personally, but it was still kind of fun. Feel free to tell me your favorite or to add your own!

Excuses, Excuses!

These are some of my favorite "reasons" students have given me as to why they missed/can't come to their lessons and couldn't possibly have cancelled in advance (and yes, I still charged them. Every last one of them):

... I didn't know today was Wednesday (or Thursday, or whatever day is lesson day)
... I forgot my oboe/reed/music/money. To which I respond by loaning them mine (except, of course, the money. That I keep.) Nothing like risking an aneurysm on a reed that is way too hard or carpal tunnel holding oboe that is way too heavy to remind a kid to bring their own the next time!
... I went to McDonald's with my friends for lunch.
... I have to finish eating my orange!
... I had a doctor's appointment/badminton game/field trip. Didn't my friend/the band director/other random person tell you? [Nope! It's not their responsibility to do so!]
... I had to watch my brother jump a car battery in the parking lot. [me: Why? Did you help? them: Uh, no. me:*shaking head sadly*]
... I didn't practice so I figured I shouldn't come. Thanks for not wanting to waste my time, but to actually not waste my time, you should cancel your lesson!
... I was totally going to tell you, but my Internet has been down, and I like, lost your number, and my mom forgot to call your other number, and...

The list could go on and on. It would be funny if it weren't so sad... ah, how I long for the day when I no longer have to rely on high school students for my primary source of income!

The Toast (Writing Prompt #17)

Photo by nlmAdestiny

"No, I'm not jealous; no, I'm not bitter; and no, I don't wish it was me."

I had only meant to set the record straight, delivering a confident, one-sentence response to those well-intentioned folks who had been coming up to me all weekend, giving me apologetic looks and shaking their heads sadly as they murmured such meant-to-be-encouraging phrases as: "there, there" and "your day will come."

Instead-- and much to my mother's horror-- that misplaced self-affirmation became the opening line of my maid-of-honor toast.

It was my sister's wedding-- my younger sister, who married young. Apparently, that made me look bad. But I wasn't about to accept my perceived role as her spiteful older sibling, well on the way toward spinsterhood-- I was 27, for crying out loud!

Informed less than 48 hours before the ceremony that I was expected to speak, I frantically began brainstorming toast ideas that weren't entirely cliché. I had a vague idea that I wanted to speak from an older sister's point of view, highlighting how she-- and our relationship-- had grown and changed over the years.

Instead, as I stood in front of more than 200 friends and relatives and catering workers in a strapless cinnamon dress with ruching on the side, I began citing example after socially crippling example of the familial injustices I faced growing up, and how my sacrifice is a big part of the reason her childhood went as well as it did.

I suppose I should preface the contents of my speech by saying that my sister is the pretty one, the popular one. She's always been well-liked, by teachers, friends, boys, you name it, and-- like most babies of the family-- she had coasted through the early years of her life with relative ease.
I guess, by default, that makes me the smart one, or maybe the funny one. Growing up, my job as the oldest sibling was to break our parents in for each new life stage or milestone we reached as we got older. I was their test run; if I played by the rules and managed not to screw things up too badly, it automatically earned my little sister the right to do the same thing I had just begged, cajoled, and pleaded to be able to do. Only, because of the age difference, she got to do it three years sooner, and without tribulation. Apparently, I was still a bit jealous of this fact.

I think, at one point, I even uttered the words "Mom and Dad like you best!" Yes, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I did.

As I recounted the whole pierced ears debacle (I would never have been allowed to get my ears pierced in kindergarten!), the day I was finally allowed to shave my legs (with a friend, under close supervision, and only up to the knee... I was in 7th grade!), and how I adhered to a 9:00 p.m. curfew until almost my senior year in high school, only to witness my sister burst onto the scene and be allowed to stay out late and go to school dances-- with dates!-- I realized that this speech was quickly going the way of the Cain and Abel analogies offered up by the groom's younger brother in his Best Man toast.

Even though I had a captive audience and I was getting some laughs (probably at my expense), and even heard a smattering of applause here and there, I knew I had to right the ship, and quick. So I tried to mention some of the battles she fought once I went off to college, like bringing the boys to family functions, which is something that scares me to this day. I also had to give her some major credit for choreographing the big, traditional wedding with the flowers, the froofy dresses, and the floating-candle-and-cranberry centerpiece things, because that's a battle I simply wouldn't have won.

In closing, I told her and my new brother-in-law that, if they could scrounge up a grandkid or two in the next few years, we'd call it even.

Although I'm told that my impromptu speech was memorable, if I had to do it all over again, I think that, next time, maybe I should use some notes.

The Banker Behind the Curtain

An unintended casualty of a failed bank, I opened an envelope from the national bank that had usurped the assets of the local financial institution where I opened a checking account upon moving to Chicago nearly seven years before. I had to read the letter within twice, because I simply couldn't believe what I was reading. It claimed that the deposit of cash and local checks I made on a Thursday still wasn't available for withdrawal the following Wednesday, which is when I had scheduled a number of payments to be made. And unlike my old bank, which never charged for withdrawals made from an account which had sufficient (but not yet available) funds, my new bank socked me with $35 per transaction, and charged interest for every day I didn't rectify the problem. They started charging interest on Thursday, the letter came Saturday afternoon. By the time I got to the bank Monday morning, I was on my fifth day of interest and fuming.

Deciding to give my new bank the benefit of the doubt, I sat down to speak with a banker, prepared to chalk the entire incident up to one big misunderstanding. I asked why my money wouldn't have been available an entire week after I made the deposit, explained that I would have taken care of the misunderstanding sooner had I known, and asked if there was anything that they could do. She tried to tell me it took local checks 2-3 days to clear, when the sign on her desk clearly read 1-2 business days. Then she told me she didn't know, then she told me that I had overdrawn my account. None of these things were true.

I argued that, if Takeover Bank was going to handle fees differently than Failed Bank, account holders should have been notified of these changes. Furthermore, if Takeover Bank was going to charge interest on overdrawn accounts, they should notify customers instantaneously by phone or email. Even the teller who made my deposit the day before I received the overdraft letter could have mentioned that my deposit was not enough to cover all the money that the bank had pulled out of my account.

The Deceptive Banker said she would talk to her boss for me. She disappeared, then came back a few minutes later, saying that they would reverse the charges for all but one NSF fee and one day of interest. I updated my check register, but still wasn't getting the same total that she was. I asked two or three times if I had forgotten to record a withdrawal or if there were other charges on my account that I didn't know about. She assured me there was nothing missing from my records and convinced me that I just needed a calculator. I would have preferred them to have reversed all the charges, but decided that was fair, thanked Deceptive Banker for her time, and left.

The next day, another envelope from Takeover Bank appeared in my mailbox. With a combined sense of foreboding and deja vu, I open the letter to discover that I had in fact been socked with twice as many fees as Deceptive Banker had claimed, fees which had been posted to my account days before my meeting with her. She was aware of the charges, even though I was not, and failed to disclose these charges to me even when I asked her directly.

I spent the next couple of weeks calling the bank, trying to speak with the branch manager, but to no avail. I kept getting transferred back to Deceptive Banker, who told me that she'd tell her boss that I "didn't understand" what she had told me, and if he "felt like" reversing more fees, he would. And if he didn't "feel like it", then I was out of luck.

After another week of calling and getting the run around from the branch manager-- the Banker Behind the Curtain-- who flat out refused to speak with me, an exasperated receptionist finally patched me through to the teller manager. She was very kind and took the time to look up my deposit and answer my questions, but when I asked her to honor the amount that Deceptive Banker told me I had been charged, she went right back to the root of my problems.

Not surprisingly, Deceptive Banker changed her story, and the kind teller manager relayed the Banker Behind the Curtain's decision to refund one more day of interest to placate me. I was not placated, and asked once more to speak to the Great Oz directly, because what they were doing was dishonest. She told me (albeit apologetically) that the Wizard's decision was final, and there was nothing more she could do.

At this point, I'm far more steamed about the way Takeover Bank has handled this entire debacle than I am about the charges themselves. And as for the Banker Behind the Curtain-- if he can't make the time to talk to little old me, maybe he'll be able to clear some time in his busy day of cheating, then hiding from, customers to talk to a representative from the OCC, which received my formal complaint against Takeover Bank this morning.